


The One Where Simon Fights the Chimera...Again

by Drvivc



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: A trip to LA, Agatha makes an appearance, Baz's teen fantasies come into play, Chernobyl, Going through airport security with wings and a tail and fangs is tough, I need help with tags, Kissing, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Post-Canon, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Right?, Roughly 10 years post Carry On, Scrubs References, Simon and Baz Fight the Chimera...Again, Simon-centric, There must be unicorns., Wavering Wood, Whats up with Lucy, Will Simons Magic Return?, maybe not, restoration ecology, she's dead, there's kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 19:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16248293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drvivc/pseuds/Drvivc
Summary: It's roughly 10 years after Watford. Simon and Baz are married, they have a house, domestic bliss and all that. Simon ends up in the Wavering Wood. Fighting a chimera. With a little help from Baz and the unexpected return of the Sword of Mages.  What does Baz know? Simon and Baz go to LA. What do Chernobyl and Simon's magic have in common? Let's figure this out together.





	1. The One Where Simon Fights the Chimera...Again

**Author's Note:**

> So I've never written fiction in my life. I write nonfiction, generally veterinary-related. Carry On and the Amazing Fandom have unlocked some latent creative powers I didn't know I had. Hopefully it's not shit. I have an idea for at least the beginning of this story, beyond this part, like how they got there & stuff. Ultimately I think it will be about Simon slowly getting his magic back via Baz. Zero idea where to go from there, I'm writing ideas in a notebook, that my puppy just tried to eat. Maybe I'll continue this. Maybe not. I feel like I've pulled a bit from Rebel Rebel, at least the Chimera description. I didn't go back and read it, but that fic inspired me to at least think about what it looked like. Lordy, hope you don't hate this...

**Simon**

The Wavering. Fucking. Wood.

Fuck the Wavering Wood.

What the hell am I even doing here anyway?

One minute I’m at the house, making a sandwich, next one I’m here.

I’d know these trees anywhere. The smell of moss and decay and magic. I feel the ache of it. The magic. Like a phantom limb.

This wasn’t how I’d expected my day to go.

Leaves crackle beneath my feet as I start to work my way through the forest.

I come upon a unicorn foal nestled in a patch of yellow-eyed grass and iris. She gazes up at me. Bottomless eyes, a hint of iridescence in her silver-grey, white spotted coat. Opalescent nub horn.

Her mum’s around here somewhere, probably hunting (unicorns are omnivores, dietary habits somewhere between that of a goat and a bear). She’ll be right pissed if she finds me here.

Contrary to popular belief, unicorns aren’t just horned horses. They more closely resemble ephemeral deer: cloven hooves, lion tail (ok, deer don’t have lion tails, but you get the idea). Silken mane, and fringe at the hocks. Delicate, graceful, fucking vicious when provoked. That whole thing about only showing themselves to the purest of maidens is bollocks. An angry unicorn will fuck you right up, regardless of your gender or level of sexual experience. They do love a sharp wit, a kind heart, and a biting sense of humor. Rumor has it that Bull Murray practically has herds of unicorns clamoring for his attention at his country home.

  
Anyway, back to the task at hand.

I step into a clearing. It’s lovely, really: sun dappling across a sea of cerulean ferns, dotted by tufts of brilliant indigo flowers. The air feels charged with something. Wonder? Anticipation? Foreboding?

  
An otherworldly bellow & thunderous crash from across the glade answers my question.

 _Penn and fucking Teller_! It’s the chimera.

Well, _A_ chimera. Seeing as I blew up the last one.

Without even thinking, more like taking a breath, I murmur the incantation for my sword.

The Sword of Mages.

I haven’t thought about it in years. Something about this weird day, in this wild place.

_In Justice. In courage. In defence of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good._

I feel the familiar cold steel (Valerian steel, actually) hilt in my hand.

Before I get a chance to process what the fuck just happened, the chimera attacks.

Jesus, I’m rusty. When did this sword get so damn heavy?

I manage an awkward slash at the chimera’s goat-flank as I dodge to the right. Purple blood appears from a wound on his hip. Well, at least this one’s corporeal, that’s a plus.

Why is it corporeal? Why am I in the Wavering Wood? Why did my sword come? Am I in a parallel universe? That happened once in fourth year. Penny and I found an enchanted mirror tucked in some hidden room at Watford. Next thing we knew, Penny was dumb as a box of hammers, while I was weighing pros and cons of the Great Vowel Shift of the Sixteenth Century (and its effects on the magical vernacular). I was able to spell us out of that little hiccup because for once, my magic worked properly.

Anyway, my mind wanders to Baz. I wonder where he is. Are we still married in this parallel universe? Still in love?

The chimera comes back for another round. Snake-tail hissing with teeth like daggers. Goat head, red eyes, nostrils flared, emitting an otherworldly howl (nothing like Ebb’s cute little goats) while the lion head roars like a jet engine. Did I mention that chimeras stink? They smell like a combination of cat piss and mouldy gym socks. I can hardly stand it. The creature eyes me as it crouches down, poisonous tail flicking, ready to pounce.

Well, I’m going to feel this tomorrow (assuming I survive). I clamp down on my blade, holding it at the ready. I plant my feet and stick out my jaw. My old fighting stance. I level my eyes at the chimera and brace for impact. I don’t remember the chimera looking so _big_ last time.

A blue ball of fire launches past my right shoulder, nearly singeing my ear. Instinctively I duck as another fireball flies over my head. Both shots hit their mark and the chimera bursts into flames; heaving gargled shrieks as it morphs into a smoking pile of gore and fur.

Blimey. Corporeal AND flammable. Definitely parallel universe.

I look up (at some point, apparently, I hit the ground) and Baz is standing over me. He’s wearing the floral Gucci suit I talked him into buying at Nordstorms. White smoke is billowing around him in curling tendrils. He runs his hand through his shoulder-length hair, titanium band glinting on his left ring finger. His pewter eyes are worried. He looks stunning.

I feel that old stab of lightning from my heart to my brain to every extremity. Still in love. Still married.

Nope, not a parallel universe.

“Are you all right, Snow?” he asks softly.

“Yeah. You?”

“Fine,” he says.

“What the actual fuck, Baz?”

“Crowley. We’re in the Wavering Wood.”

“Yes, Basilton. We all know you’re the smart one. Why the fuck are we here? How the fuck did we get here?”

“No more questions”

“There’s nothing but questions, Baz”

“You. Me. Us. The Wavering Wood.” This time he draws out each syllable, he’s a million miles away. His voice trails off. Baz looks almost dreamy, only, he doesn’t really _do_  dreamy. More like hopefully melancholy.  
He’s sitting next to me now, facing me. Probably ruining his new suit with mud and muck. Looking at me like I’m something he’d like to eat.

“Yes, Baz, way to state the obvious. Now what?”

His hands are on my cheeks as he leans over and plants a soft kiss on the end of my nose. Another one on his favorite mole below my eye. Then the one on my neck.

“Simon” he whispers while moving to straddle me and place his arms around my neck. “We’re in the Wavering Wood” he repeats, into the hollow below my ear. For one brief second I wonder if somehow he’s been injured, sustained a concussion. It’s the last cognizant thought I have before I am overwhelmed. My vampire husband's cool breath all smoke and velvet.

My heart is beating so fast, I’m not sure I can even summon the strength to speak, or even roll my eyes. Baz is kissing me now, all fire and ice. His hands are unbuttoning my shirt.

“Do you have any idea?” He gently bites my ear.

“During all those years at Watford?” Kisses down my neck.

“All. The. Things” Hands on my chest, gently pushing me to the ground.

“I fantasized about” My hands slide through his hair. My mouth on his.

“Doing to you” He whispers into my mouth, it slides into a groan.

“In the Wavering Wood?” Barely audible. Replaced by sighs, moans. Hands, lips, hearts racing.

The sun sets, the moon rises.  
This day, this night, it all feels so right. Magickally right.

Like a portent.


	2. What the Fuck Just Happened?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple married dudes, Simon and Baz, sitting around their house discussing monumental, earth shattering revelations. No big. 
> 
> Well. 
> 
> The revelations are coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I started this fic last year. I wrote these chapters maybe in December? I'm not sure. After that, the bottom fell out of my life and I had other shit to deal with and forgot about this. Apparently at some point, I got this up to 5 chapters. I have no recollection of doing it, but there you go. I write all of these on the fly and my life is crazy, but I'll try to update more frequently, since things have settled for me a bit, personally. 
> 
> I cannot thank @cynosure_phrases and @artescapri enough for their incredible beta skills. You guys keep me from commiting grammar travesties and are simply brilliant with your advice and edits. I'm eternally grateful.

**Baz**

Well, that was nice. Fucked up on many levels, but that last bit was divine.

**Simon**

Jesus, Baz.

We’re in his car (BMW i8, ridiculous) racing home.  I’m knackered. My mind is a whirlwind of chimeras, sweat, fire, kisses and unmentionables. I look down and realize that my shirt is not only inside out, but it’s backwards.

Merlin, how does he still get to me like this.

I shake my head.

“ _Baz_ !” he’s staring ahead, a little _too_ focused on the road.

“Hm?” he murmurs, still looking forward.

“ _I just teleported to the Wavering Wood and fought a Chimera with a sword that I haven’t seen in over 10 years,”_ I snap. What the fuck just happened?

“You left out the part about our woodland shag.”

If I could go off, I would. I swear my fingers are buzzing.

Baz finally glances at me, “calm down, miracle boy, let's discuss this when we get home.”

 

**Baz**

To be perfectly honest, I’m not exactly sure what’s happened. I mean, I know how he got to the Wavering Wood. That bit’s my fault.

Malfoy gave me a portkey as a gag gift for Christmas one year. It looks like a jar of Trader Joe’s truffle Dijon mustard. Snow has the culinary acumen of a 5-year-old, so I never thought he’d touch it. It’s been on the shelf for ages.

I heard a clatter in the kitchen. When I got there to investigate, Snow was gone, leaving the remains of a sandwich on the counter. That alone was enough to scare the fuck out of me.

I used Fiona’s finding spell to locate him. It never fails.

Watford was the last place I thought I'd end up, but then again, I suppose that's what Malfoy had in mind. My heart stopped when I reached the clearing wood. Simon looked majestic: Sword in hand, biceps flexed, godlike jaw set, bracing to fight the Chimera.

 _My_ majestic, broken husband. About to be taken down by a Chimera. 

I nearly died (again). 

 

**Simon:**

We’re home. Baz lit a flame in the giant stone fireplace with his wand. Technically it’s a gas fireplace, you can ignite it with the push of a button, but you know how he is with fire. I think he likes to ignite stuff, to prove he’s more Pitch than vampire.

He fixes himself his usual gin & tonic. I don’t know what it is with vampires and gin.  Although, he prefers Hendrix over the Bombay Sapphire the vamps in the club drank that awful and wonderful night, years ago. He says he prefers the floral overtones, or something equally posh. I grab a Shiner Bock from the fridge. Baz loves to give me shit about drinking American beer. I got a taste for it when we visited Penny & Micah in Chicago. Since then, Baz has craft beers sent in from Morgana knows where and keeps a constant supply just for me. That marvelous and considerate tosser.

We settle on the couch. Baz is at one end, closest to the fire, and I stretch out along the rest of it with my, feet in his lap. Baz gives epic foot rubs. I wiggle my toes, to make sure he gets the hint.

He rolls his eyes and absentmindedly begins to knead my feet. I’m wearing the fuzzy socks he got me for his birthday (That’s right, _his_  birthday). My feet are always cold, even though the rest of me is always warm. He says it makes him happy to make me happy and that’s gift enough. Merlin, I love this man.

“Ok”, I say. “So we run out of mustard. I make an executive decision to try your crap mustard, and  I end up at Watford-- how are Malfoy and Potter, by the way?”

“Fine”, Baz muses, “last I heard, they were in Spain, breeding Great Danes.”

“That’s random.”

“Magickal Danes, they change color according to their mood,” he says, with a bit of a mockery in it.

“Well, alright then. Anyway,” I need to get back to the topic at hand, “Sword of Mages”.

 

**Baz**

Crowley. I really don’t have any idea why his sword came back.

Well, I have an idea, but I’m not sure I’m ready to share it with Snow yet. It’s going to require some explaining and some uncomfortable (to say the least) revelations.

I decide to employ Simon strategy # 1: Keep it simple.

“You know how I got that certificate in restoration ecology a few years ago?”

 

**Simon**

Harry Houdini, here he goes. Baz has more letters after his name than his name is long.  The man can not stop learning. He’s a magickal lawyer by trade, generally sticking to business cases, but he can’t avoid dipping into politics. Occasionally he’ll take a criminal case.

“To stay sharp”, he says, “not that much difference, really, between crime and politics.”

**Baz**

“I have this theory that your magic came from the earth’s core.”

It’s not a theory; I read it in his fucking dad’s journals.

Try keeping _that_ secret from the love of your life.

Six months ago, I ended up with a crate of The Mage’s effects from my mother’s old office. Mitali Bunce retired as head mistress of Watford, and Phillippa Stanton took her spot. Apparently her voice came back, years after the unfortunate tape recorder incident, and she went back to school. Being voiceless for so long gave her a keen appreciation for the spoken word. She took over elocution class when Ms. Posibelf retired, and she was an excellent teacher as well as a fierce champion for her students. She was a natural choice for headmistress.

When she got to the position, Philippa got it in her head that she wanted to start with a “clean slate”, so she had the office gutted.

I got a crate of my Mother’s books, Simon got one from The Mage. He had no interest in rehashing the past so he declined the delivery. I, having had no such qualms, tracked down the crate and have been surreptitiously going through its contents to see if anything in there can help Simon.

Little did I know that I would unearth a fucking shit show.

**Simon**

“… and?”

Baz replies using his _you’re extra special stupid_ voice, “So, after a disaster, life creeps back in. Look at Chernobyl, it’s still radioactive, but the wildlife population there is thriving.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure 3 headed deer are considered _thriving_.”

“Well, at least there are a lot of them, that counts for something.”

I press: “What does that have to do with me?”

“It has everything to do with you, Simon.”

Baz gives me a long look then continues: “Your magic isn’t just physical, it’s elemental.”

A loud, metallic jangle cuts into the room.

“What the fuck is that?” I gasp, heart racing.  It sounds like some kind of demented fire alarm.

“It’s the land line,” responds Baz, getting to his feet.

He strides to the source of the noise: an antique relic on the book shelf.  A bronze and ivory monstrosity, with a rotary dial.

“I thought that was just one of your posh decorations.”

Baz picks up the delicately etched handset. He places the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“I bet that thing is made from actual whales teeth, or illegal elephant tusks,” I mumble,  “You look like even more of a tosser than usu-- .”

Baz’s eyes cut to me with a look I’ve never seen before. Tears shimmer in his eyes as what little color there is drains from his face.

“Simon,” he chokes, “We need to go to L.A.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say, that posting this stuff is scary as hell. Anyway, I've written 3.5 more chapters. I'll post them as I get them final-edited and work up the nerve. Comments are fearfully welcome and appreciated. Feel free to visit me @fight-surrender on Tumblr.


	3. Meanwhile In L.A.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mysterious patient in an American Hospital. Monumentous awakenings. Lives are about to change forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this is a blatant reference to my most favorite TV show of all time, "Scrubs". Like "Carry On", the characters and stories just stole my heart and brought me so much joy. This is a short, short chapter, but I love it. Hope you do too.

24 Hours Earlier

Sacred Heart Hospital, Los Angeles, California

 

The room was silent as a tomb, save for the steady electronic beep of the monitors and the rhythmic hiss-whir of the ventilator. Carla Espinosa feels the familiar hitch in her chest whenever she’s with this patient. What is it? Affection? Guilt? Sadness? She’s been a nurse for over 20 years, patients don’t get to her. She’s good at her job.

But something about this woman.

Carla checks the IV pump, making adjustments here, a notation in the chart there. The name on the record is “Jane Doe”. She’s been in this hospital for close to 30 years. Nobody visits. Her expenses are paid by a trust. She was dropped off at the ER. Comatose. Someone just left her on a bench. Who does that?  Initially the staff thought she was sleeping.

Nurse Espinosa sighs and glances at her watch. She’s got time; her shift ends soon. From a bag on the chair she removes a hairbrush. Technically, patient grooming is below her pay grade, but Carla feels it’s the least she can do. Carefully, she runs the brush through Emma’s golden locks. Carla renamed her patient Emma years ago, deciding that this woman deserves something better than plain Jane.

For lack of a better term, Emma was well preserved for a coma patient. Despite thirty years of immobility, her muscles never atrophied. Her skin retained a rosy glow, dotted in constellations of freckles and moles. (Three moles on her right cheek, two below her left ear, one over her left eye.) She hasn’t aged a day. She’s lovely, really. Lying there, on that sterile hospital bed, waiting for her prince to come kiss her awake.

Dr. Perry Cox bursts into the room with his usual bravado and utter lack of anything resembling tact, breaking Carla’s reverie. “How’s our little rutabaga today?” He looks over at Carla, gently holding a mass of bronze curls, “Jesus woman, these are vegetables not pets. Don’t you have enough Barbies at home?”

Carla rolls her eyes, “Bite me, Dr. Cox.”

Doctor and nurse glance at the monitor as an alarm goes off and all sense of animosity goes out the window. Beneath the witty banter and false antagonism is a pair of professionals who work together like a well oiled machine.  The staccato beat of the cardiac monitor plays counterpoint to the incessant shriek of the alert indicator. “She’s in v-tac,” Dr. Cox barks, “Get ready to charge the paddles.” Carla preps the crash cart.

The shrill beeping of the machinery comes to a crescendo. The electronic thrum becomes the nidus of all energy in the room.

Just as quickly as they started, the monitors go silent. All activity pauses as Perry and Carla peer at Jane Doe’s face.

The patient’s eyes fly open.

Blue eyes, fathomless, wide, confused.  She looks at the medical staff.

A single tear streams down her cheek.

For once, Dr. Cox is at a loss for words.

“Um, Hi?” Offers Carla.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my dear friend @tbazzsnow and @argylefetish for their beta help. 
> 
> Fun fact: my son is named Perry, after a certain snarky, prickly character with a heart of gold (middle name, Logan, after another one-apparently I have a "type"). I guess It's good I didn't read Carry On before I had kids, or his name might have been Basil. 
> 
> Love to you all <3


	4. The Airport, an Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting through the airport with wings and fangs is challenging, to say the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently brevity is the soul of my writing. This chapter seemed a lot longer in my head. I guess it's good in that you can read my fics at red lights, on smoke breaks, waiting for the shower to heat up, etc. I'm the Lady Fair Cigarettes of fanfiction. Twice the fic in half the time for the girl on the go. (That's a Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion movie reference for you young 'uns. Great movie, highly recommended.)

**Simon**

 

Flying is always a shit show for Baz and me, even under the best of circumstances. Preparing to fly across the Atlantic on a moment’s notice when your spouse won’t even divulge _why_ you’re taking said TransAtlantic flight makes it particularly unpleasant.

After multiple Star Wars viewings, Baz finally mastered “ **_these aren’t the droids you are looking for_ ** ” so at least my wings and tail aren’t visible to the travelers and airport staff. However, the X-ray machine is a fucking travesty. Between my dragon parts and Baz’s fangs, we’re an absolute nightmare. There's no TSA protocol for half dragon men and vampires. Pandemonium tends to ensue. 

The first few times we flew, Baz used “ **_clean slate_ ** ” to wipe the security officer’s memories, but I felt bad about the whole total amnesia thing.

Now he uses “ **_whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas_ **.” It gives the officers a brief state of euphoria, then they have no recollection of what just happened. At least they don’t have to like, relearn their whole identities.

We make it through security with no incidents, and onto the plane. Thank Merlin we’re in business class. The first time we flew to visit Penny, I insisted on flying coach. Cramming myself, wings included into those tiny seats nearly killed me. I was so mental that Baz finally cast a “ **_Sweet Dreams are Made of This,”_ ** so I could get some sleep.

I should just get these bloody dragon parts removed. Dr. Welbelove said it should be a simple procedure. But Baz, despite his incessant mockery, loves my red wings and tail. To be perfectly honest, I do to. Over the years, they’ve come to symbolize who I am, what I’ve been through. Not quite magickal, not quite normal, something different, somehow stronger before. I’ve been through hell and back,  haven’t I?

The rev of the engines indicate the plane’s about to take off. I think about asking Baz to cast a **_“Say Anything”_ **  to settle my nerves a bit, but I just take his hand instead.

**Baz**

How do you pick up from “ _you opened a portkey and teleported to fight a chimera, and oh by the way, your magic might be coming back,_ ” to “ _the mother you didn’t know you had, who was abused and manipulated by the father you thought was your benevolent Jedi master, just woke up from a thirty year coma in America_?”

**Simon**

I move Baz’s hand to my mouth and kiss the cross shaped scar on his palm. Then I bite it.

“The fuck, Simon?” Baz yips. Eyebrows wrinkled, looking at me like I’ve clearly lost it now.

I reply, “we’re stuck on this plane for the next 10 hours, if you don’t tell me why the fuck you’ve sent us on this world tour, by Merlin and Morganna, so help me,  I will trade seats with the nearest chatty old lady and let her talk to you about her ailments for the balance of this trip.”

**Baz**

Well I guess _that’s_ how you pick up.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on Tumblr if you want @fight-surrender, I'd love to chat. 
> 
> XOXO
> 
> Viv


End file.
